"What do you suppose he'll do, Mr. Jolly?--McGowan, I mean."

"I expect he'll do what the law'll let him, Mr. Ringgan; I don't know
what'll hinder him."

"It's a worse turn than I thought my infirmities would ever play me," said
the old gentleman after a short pause,--"first to lose the property
altogether, and then not to be permitted to wear out what is left of life
in the old place--there won't be much."

"So I told him, Mr. Ringgan. I put it to him. Says I, 'Mr. McGowan, it's a
cruel hard business; there ain't a man in town that wouldn't leave Mr.
Ringgan the shelter of his own roof as long as he wants any, and think it
a pleasure,--if the rent was anyhow.'"

"Well--well!" said the old gentleman, with a mixture of dignity and
bitterness,--"it doesn't much matter. My head will find a shelter somehow,
above ground or under it. The Lord will provide.--Whey! stand still, can't
ye! what ails the fool? The creature's seen years enough to be steady," he
added with a miserable attempt at his usual cheerful laugh.

Fleda had turned away her head and tried not to hear when the lowered
tones of the speakers seemed to say that she was one too many in the
company. But she could not help catching a few bits of the conversation,
and a few bits were generally enough for Fleda's wit to work upon; she had
a singular knack at putting loose ends of talk together. If more had been
wanting, the tones of her grandfather's voice would have filled up every
gap in the meaning of the scattered words that came to her ear. Her heart
sank fast as the dialogue went on, and she needed no commentary or